Deceived by Appearance
by Freude
Summary: Russia is perceived by many to be a country of cruel intent, or at least one who can snap at any moment. You, however, have always been interested in his character and how many have talked about his kind and compassionate appearance being a veil for a much darker side that surfaces without warning. Will your insisted visit be a fun adventure or something you come to regret?


If any person was to ponder to themselves who or what is the cruelest of cruel, something or someone that knows not the meaning of mercy, those of past or present existence that have earned themselves the title of being unwavering in the ways of savagery and brutality, he or she would surely have a wide variety of possibilities. Would it be the Japanese, a people raised amongst the myths of the Samurai, and how an entire culture was fooled into believing a force of ruthless mercenaries who served their Shogun through any means necessary was actually a band of swordsmen who practiced the traits of honor and chivalry to the highest extent? Could it be them when their military held the Code of Bushido before their hearts in a gripping embrace, perfectly willing to lay down their lives before ever laying down their arms, and brutally treating anyone else who fought while bearing a different mindset?

Would it be the Germans, a people with roots that go back in history to the Germanic tribes at the time of the Roman Empire, a people whose stubbornness to relinquish their sense of pride has at least on one single but famous occasion blinded them from right and wrong? A people who were willing to follow a power-hungry dictator in return for a savior who could free them from their humility and newfound poverty, a man who would eventually be known as the most horrific figure of the twentieth century?

There are the Mongols, nomads of conquest who took Europe and Asia by storm, traveling through the Christian and Muslim worlds while leaving a trail of absolute devastation, famous for their brutality and ruthlessness to the populace of the towns and cities they raided. There are the Timurids, a people who would emerge years and years later with a desire to bring the legend and fame of Mongolian achievements back to life, and there are indeed many more.

It is of my opinion, however, that the placeholder for most brutal and most merciless is neither of these. It is not a person, nor a race, nor a nationality, but a congregation that has existed since the first of humanity's kind has ever walked upon this Earth.

It is society, and its unwavering condemnation upon that which it does not understand.

All who I had ever come in contact with always had the same thing to say about Russia: He was best to be avoided at all costs. They thought Russia to be mostly a man shrouded in the foggy mist of mystery, a man more quiet and isolated than a thousand Germanys. Despite their lack of knowledge, all of them were sure of one thing, however, which was that Russia's kind and quiet personality could easily become something less charming.

They described various rumors about him carrying out acts of torture and malice upon all he despised, and even on those he loved. They say his acts of violence are not acts of pure will, but mainly because he has irresistible urges to do so. Most countries considered this to be more than enough reasons to stay as far away from him as one could, however he did have three or four countries that didn't mind his company. I believe Lithuania, be it by will or by force, works as Russia's housekeeper, though I am sure his experiences would be a mixture of pain, nervousness, and the occasional sense of relief when Russia was not malevolent. I couldn't help but feel some sense of sympathy for one such as him; I couldn't help but feel he had to have some redeeming qualities somewhere within his heart.

Actually, to put it truthfully, I did possess an urge to meet him. Perhaps it was his voice of honey that others have often described, his kind and benevolent appearance and nature that was so often shattered by his psychopathic urges. I could not help myself but ask him one day if I could come over to his house to hang out sometime. Although I'm often rather confined to my own presence, there are times when a queer sense of openness allows me to present my true self to those I feel comfortable around, how Russia fell into this category I'm not exactly sure, perhaps it was due to the fact I felt pity for him? Luckily for me, he immediately accepted with a joyful smile of glee on his face. "We'll have lots of fun, Da!?" he said with a benign grin.

Thus that brought me here, in front of his large house. The Kremlin was truly something to admire, the towering domes of swirls and patterns that prove to be mesmerizing for even the most stubborn individuals. I thought such a structure had taken inspiration from that of the Muslim world, however I could not be certain if that was the case. It was as if this structure had be graced with the touch of God's paint brush and painted with the expertise of Picasso or Da Vinci. It mattered not the origins of such a structure, what mattered most to me was its unsurpassed beauty.

I approached the massive double doors that served as the entryway into a magnificent palace. I could not help but feel the sense of anxiety envelop me as the realization of what I was about to embark upon hit me, that I was personally meeting with an individual who was feared by many. It was true that just about all social situations gave me some sense of dread that disregarded how well I knew the person in question or how close I was to them, but the fact that this one was considered to be dangerous and psychopathic did prove to me frightening indeed. I wondered to myself why I did not bother to feel such questionable emotions until now, though I simply brushed it off innocently thinking it was merely because I was enveloped in that rare mood of mine where social awkwardness was nonexistent and where I possessed an uncanny urge to converse. That mood, however, quickly began to subside.

On both of the large golden doors was a door knocker. It was with a sigh that I placed my one of my cold hands upon the nearly frozen metal. I did nothing but ask myself if I really did want to do this. I asked myself if I was confident enough not only in _my_ abilities, but of Russia's as well. I asked myself if these abilities would ensure my safety should worse come to worse. It was a question I could not answer, and I did not want to simply ditch him and possibly get on his bad side. I had never heard of anyone who had gotten on his bad side, and in the paranoia that engulfed me, I was too frightened to question further as to whether it was simply because no one had thought of such a tale, or if it was because no one who got on his bad side ever lived to tell it; I simply assumed the worst of the two. Despite the conundrum that was presented to me, what choice did I have?

_Might as well get this over with_

I slammed the knocker into the door three good times. I took a step or two backwards to make room for the wide doors should they prove to be opened. My head bowed in response to the fear and worry that took hold of me while waiting for the unknown, to see if those doors would open or remain shut. I could not help but hope they would prove to follow the latter. Would his appearance be any different from what it was any other day? Would he act any different from what he would any other day?

I could not help but laugh and scold myself for that latter question. How could I possibly find an answer to whether his person would remain unchanged if I had never known it at all? I did hope his personality would be unlike that which I had assumed to know, I hoped he would prove to possess something that I could not: An ease to express open affection. If this was not the case, I feared this would prove to be a long and awkward visit.

A few seconds had passed without a sign of response. I was thinking about taking this small amount of time as a decent enough sign of his absence and to leave. My heat slapped my brain on the wrist in disapproval. If he was to show himself then I knew it was best to show himself now before my brain took control of my body in its rational ways that lack empathy, compassion, or other emotions. It was as the awkwardness grew within me that my urge to leave grew as well. I kept my head lowered, unwilling to witness the opening of those massive doors if Russia was by some chance home. Despite how much I wanted to get to know him, my anxiety slowly overpowered my excitement.

A creaking sound disturbed me from my train of thought. My heart began to race as my mind raced to picture what sight would be presented before me. I could not help but raise my head enough to capture a decent view of whatever would be stationed behind those doors, waiting and hoping it would be friendly and welcoming. As much as I hated to even think about such rash assumptions, my mind raced to the possibility that Russia's eager and hospitable acceptance of my request for a visit was simply a guise to hide a desire much more sinister and evil. Did he simply want to have some sort of twisted and corrupted fun that could only be carried out in the privacy of his house? Was I simply going to be one more victim that fell for his well-known yet not well-avoided ploy of a kind and loving appearance that covered a malicious intent?

With the passing of a mere second or two the doors opened themselves. Standing before me was Russia, no doubt. He wore what would be considered his usual attire, the most notable features of it being the long tan trench coat and his white scarf. I could not help but think him to look rather nice. His purple eyes made contact with mine before I eventually drew them away out of shyness. Whether I wanted to admit it or not, I did find him rather attractive. How a thought as insignificant as that managed to sneak through in a time of awkwardness, shyness, and possibly danger was and still is unknown to me.

"You actually came?" he asked with curiosity.

"Of course," I answered, "Why would I not?"

I wondered to myself why he would ask me such a queer question. Was it how I presented myself that day or by some sort of vibe I gave off that led Russia to a feeling that I might ditch him? Was it not by my doing, but by a history of others being unfaithful to their word that led him to be skeptical of my arrival?

Then again, there wasn't much surprise in his voice; there was no tone that gave a hint to a response to the unexpected, but more of a response to a mere observation. Perhaps deep down inside he was somewhat intrigued and surprised by my arrival, but what he did show was simply apparent to that of a statement of what was presented before him, that being myself.

He stood aside and let his hand make a motion granting me passage into his house. "After you." he said. With a deep breath I walked into the giant lobby of what was a giant palace. Russia followed suit and closed the large doors behind him with a thick thud. I could not help but close my eyes in a sense of internal pain at the sound; I could not help but think the smallest hint of thought that the closing of those doors would be the closing of the outside world. I could not help but feel the smallest hint of fear that my life would come to an end within these large walls and that the screams that may be emitted from my dying voice would fail to penetrate those large golden doors that closed with such violence.

"I was thinking about showing you around that is if you don't mind, da?" he asked with a small but innocent-looking smile.

"Sure, I'm sure I'd love to be presented with the wonders of this place." I said with a sense of excitement and zeal that proved to surprise even myself. He took head of me and ushered me with one of his hands to follow him down the grand corridor that led to the staircase. That staircase was, well, magnificent would be an understatement. The steps were covered with a scarlet red carpet that was free of dirt or even lint. It was the handles that took me the most off guard. They were made out of the finest of rosewood and shined in the reflection of the chandelier that hung above with great splendor. What surprised me the most is that the wood did not creak with the weight of our bodies like aged wood would, it simply reacted as any other type of material would, with a thump that is well known to all.

"I wish to thank you for coming over," he said with a warm and happy tone as we ascended the staircase, "Few people seem to possess the desire to visit me. I've wanted friends, but I've only managed to find a small handful that are not shaken by all the mystery that seems to engulf me. It means a lot to have someone over, so, thank you."

Those last two words were finished with a happy smile that emitted a small giggle. I could not help but smile and giggle myself at his happiness. "I'm happy you find such joy in my visit" I spoke in response. My sense of fear seemed to be lifted in that innocent and almost child-like grin that he presented before me. How could one as sweet as him possess the mind to carry out such horrors that were spoken with such frequency in the folk tales that surrounded him?

Upon reaching the top I was greeted with the real sights of awe. "The downstairs is only for parties and get-togethers" he said. The downstairs was largely empty, spare some tables, at least from what I was able to take note of as he ushered me to the staircase. I thought it to be some sort of ballroom, and judging from the fact he said he only had a small handful of friends, I imagined the ballroom was seldom used.

The hallways broke off into two sections, one going left and the other taking right, both of them being separated by a grand pillar that stood from the foundation of the house up to the roof. Paintings were present upon nearly every section of wall. I recognized paintings of Peter the Great and of Ivan the Terrible, the rest however were foreign to me. "Most of these rooms are spare bedrooms" he explained. "Perhaps one day I'll have a use for them". It was then that I took realization that although this place was home to many rooms, only a few of them were in use. Such is the case with the Palace of Versailles most of the time as well.

He pointed to the right at two massive wooden doors. I followed him as he opened them and allowed me to enter before him. The sight was incredible; two long massive tables covered with fine white cloth presented themselves before me. On both sides of these tables were numerous wooden chairs that could surely seat 50 people with ease. On the tables were plates of the finest china and silverware of the shiniest and finest material I had ever seen in my life. A medium size table connected the two adjacent tables together. The middle table had only one chair, it was larger than the rest. It had two wide hand rests and was made all the more glamorous by the fine red cushioning.

My eyes lost themselves in the wide array of shining and flickering candles that adorned this magnificent room. Three massive candle holders stood placed in good distance on each of the long tables, each bearing 10 candles. In addition to this, one candle was beside every plate and two candles beside the grand seat by the middle table, not to mention the large chandelier that hung above. The floor was of rosewood, just as was most of the interior of this house. Covering the flooring where the tables and chairs stood was a red carpet that looked as if it had been crafted or bought this morning.

"Do you always eat in such a large and grand room?" I asked him with curiosity.

"No," he replied, "I only eat here when guests are present; I usually eat within the walls of my own room, and from time to time Lithuania."

So Lithuania _does _live here?

"Is he your housekeeper? I believe I've gotten the concept from somewhere…"

"Yes, he is my house keeper," he said in response to my second question, "He does a great job of keeping things clean."

I noticed the small smile he wore; once again, couldn't help but smile myself.

"I wish to show you something" he said with a larger grin as he ushered me towards his direction by placing his warm arm over my shoulder. He led me out of the dining room and down one of the long corridors towards a room with equally large doors at the very end of the hall. He broke loose of his embrace to open both of the doors.

"This is my room, you like, da?" He asked in an innocent voice.

The floor was once again made of rosewood, judging by the creaks that sounded as I stepped. Was it older? Yes; but was it any less extravagant? Far from it. Fine red carpet covered the entirety of the floor, however, making it look rather comfy in my opinion. The bed was the largest I had ever seen, allowing three pillows to lay across its length. I couldn't help but walk to touch the blankets, attracted by their lovely appearance. They were made out of what I thought to be the softest cloth I had ever felt. I felt compelled to rub it in my hands, unable to not feel impressed by such lovely furniture. Adjacent from the right side of the bed set a desk of oak wood that was made somewhat crude as if it was truly handmade with hands of Russia himself. Despite its rough appearance it seemed to compliment the room itself with its contrasting style. Two large candles set on both sides of the desk to make sure there was no shortage of light when work was to be done. This room felt grand yet small and homey at the same time. It felt like one was in a small log cabin by the style and layout, not in a grand palace for the Russian royalty.

"It's…more than that…" I managed to emit from a voice that was overwhelmed by the fine appearance of my surroundings. "Come!" he said eagerly, "I have something your eyes must meet."

He took my hand in his and pulled me in his direction with great gentleness as I was stumbling along, my mind still unable to catch up as it attempted even now to comprehend and overcome the shock of the splendor that Russia brushed off with such indifference. He led me out of a door that stood adjacent to the one which we entered from and I then took view of the next sight I was presented with. He had led me into what I identified to be a walk-in closet; I knew not the purpose.

He directed my attention not to his not-so-wide variety of apparel, but to a painting that hung above the shelf on the adjacent wall across from us. Russia pulled me closer until we were three feet or so from it before he stopped.

"I have often dreamed of a land not touched by the bitter hand of cold," he stated. The picture in my opinion bore no notable features; it was simply a field full of large sunflowers. I thought it to be quite simplistic, but an admirable piece nonetheless. "I have often dreamed of playing in a wide green field of tall grass and sunflowers, the shining bright sun enveloping me in its warm rays."

I noticed his gentle grip on my hand became tighter, though never losing its strange sense of security it gave to me.

"But even if I was to find such a place, I wouldn't have any comrades to play with…" he said in sadness, bowing his head in despair. I could tell that his sadness was genuine; though I knew I would condemn myself later for continuing to be persistent in doubting the integrity of such feelings. I could not help but look into his twilight eyes and feel mesmerized by their stunning beauty; I could see he clearly desired something greatly as well. His eyes finally looked towards mine, I assumed he only now noticed I was staring into his; mine darted downward in the timid and shy nature that I had for some while now been able to keep at bay. It was then a feeling rose inside of me; perhaps a feeling of grasping who Russia truly was? I know not if it was out of sympathy, or fondness, or love, but I felt the warmth of admiration overpower me.

I gave him a warm hug as I fell unto him with my weight; my legs still supporting my stance. "I'll be your friend, Russia…" I said with a sense of affection I knew not I possessed.


End file.
